The Calling by Bob Randall

Author:Bob Randall
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Valancourt Books
Published: 2024-09-03T00:00:00+00:00

13

Some part of Susan shut down.

Numbly she put Andrea to bed (no struggle, the child was exhausted) and went to bed herself. There in the darkness she tried to deny the truth briefly but could not; soon she would wake to its full horror, soon the glands that were protecting her would cease to function, that part of her brain that had short-­circuited would be repaired and the terror would be on her.

Hell was a reality. (If hell, heaven? God? Could he be called on?)

She considered praying, lying there in her stupor, but how? She had never prayed (not even when it was called for, upstairs in the synagogue; then she had merely daydreamed). Admonishments from her childhood, now with the power of absolute truths, came back to her. Do not take the Lord’s name in vain. (What did that mean? Not to speak his name? Not to pray?) God is good, trust Him. (How, when such undeserved punishments threatened her?)

Were they undeserved? She thought of her brother, murdered in the womb, and she following so closely. (Could she have been conceived before his slaying? Had she done it? Can one fetus destroy another? Wouldn’t it be washed away in the same wave of blood?)

She closed her eyes and tried to will herself to sleep; she would need her strength to fight. But behind her lids was the figure of a man standing on a craggy hill amid flames. She opened her eyes quickly, forcing it away.

“Our father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,” she whispered. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” She paused, listening, as if for an answer, but none came.

“Please, God,” she whispered, “please,” and she felt the futility of prayer.

Later, it might have been hours—Susan’s perception of time was dulled, like the rest of her senses, by fear—Lou entered the room.

“You asleep?” he said.

Would he help her? Could he?

“No.”

“I’m beat.” He undressed in the dark. Approaching the bed, he hit against the night table and cursed.

“I moved it for your phone. Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” He slid into bed, the other side of the bed, far from her. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

If he knew the truth, as surely as she knew it, would he not withhold himself? Could he be an ally?

“Lou,” she said, finally, the decision having taken time.

“Yes?” came back in the darkness.

“Do you believe in hell?”

“Oh, shit, Susan, I’m exhausted.” And he turned to face away from her.

She lay there, saying nothing, until dawn.

At a little after nine in the morning (Susan had slept at most an hour and that was fitfully) the man arrived with the phone. She stood there in the bedroom doorway, watching him install it (there would be nowhere to hide now, nowhere to sleep), avoiding his friendly chattiness, and when he was gone (eventually he stopped trying; he left wordlessly) she sat on the bed, staring at the phone, realizing its full potential.

The logic of hell’s use of it seemed appropriate;

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